


to breathe smoke

by nereid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nereid/pseuds/nereid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks, sometimes, that if she didn't think all this, maybe she and Daphne could be friends. Or could have been friends. Or some other form of some other verb that describes this particular type of possibility. Perhaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to breathe smoke

**Author's Note:**

> for the [fem!february comment!ficathon](http://fluffyfrolicker.livejournal.com/58449.html) which you should all go visit, for [](http://killing-kurare.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://killing-kurare.livejournal.com/)**killing_kurare** 's beautiful prompt, _it's a sad, sad world // When a girl will break a girl just because she can_

Women are only good to steal men away from. She doesn't remember when she decided to learn this particular truth, to ingrain it into the fabric of her thoughts and skin and bones, but she did. She'd like to be able to blame her mother, there's some poetry to that, at least, but, to be honest, she's not sure who's to blame, and in the end, it's probably only herself she should thank or blame for things. The unknown origins of it, though --

 

 

 

 

\-- well, they don't stop her from acting according to it.

 

 

 

 

So Pansy dances. It's not all she does, obviously. She talks, sleeps, eats, fucks, ad other verbs. Dance is mostly just a metaphor she'a thought out for this particular breezy sort of impression she likes to leave. That she's the wind. She could be gentle and she could kill and you're never quite sure which one'a going on until it's too late to react other than how she wanted you to all along. She likes that metaphor. She just (sometimes, when it's cold and it's a Sunday and the moon's not full yet and she's sitting in her flat, naked feet on the hardwood floor, a cigarette between her lips and everything carefully wrapped into the smoke) wishes she didn't need an audience for it.

She thinks, sometimes, that if she didn't think all this, maybe she and Daphne could be friends. Or could have been friends. Or some other form of some other verb that describes this particular type of possibility. Perhaps. She doesn't think this always, she doesn't even think this the majority of time. Daphne is too blonde in direct sunlight and not blonde enough in candle light, too obvious about her intentions and her smiles are too wide. She only paints her nails in gentle, pastel colors and she's polite even behind people's backs. There's something terribly annoying about her and she'd like her life to be rid of her

 

 

 

 

( would like to scratch the porcelain surface of her skin and wring out the loveliness straight out of her, would like to find the parts that Daphne was made of and rearrange them according to her liking, would like to put her claws into her heart and draw blood and )

 

 

 

 

(she would like to hear her scream.)

 

 

 

 

Instead, they're this. Friends but not friends. They meet at parties and similar gatherings and Daphne is always kind to her and shares smiles with Pansy, and Pansy always makes sure to leave a lips shaped red lipstick stain on her cheek whenever she kisses her goodbye or hello.

Perhaps Pansy likes her most (or least) during these parties, simply because Daphne's good at them, in that way that makes it seem like she's not aware she's good at them, that it's all just natural charm and good manners. Some days, Pansy buys that. Some days, she doesn't. It annoys Pansy to no end that she can't tell what's the truth.

 

Still.

Daphne's not as good as Pansy. (Yet, screams a tiny voice in Pansy's mind. She isn't as good yet.)

 

 

 

 

Because Pansy's still better at this, Pansy's thrown her fair share of parties last year and she lets Daphne beat her to hosting a party this time, or she doesn't let her and Daphne just does it, or whatever version of the arrangement of subjects and objects in this sentence makes this a more suitable turn of events. Let's say that when the flowers in the meadows start blooming and spring starts creeping up on them, Daphne is the first to send out invitations to her Spring Welcoming party. Pansy sighs and rolls her eyes, which is absurd, because she only sighs and rolls her eyes for people to see, and she's alone in her room now. She'll go to the party, of course. But she'll only RSVP the day before the party, and that's a point for her (even if it's silly to keep points in a game only she knows they're playing). It's part of the aloof appearance, not really showing interest. Appearances are the most important thing, after all. (Or the only thing.)

 

 

 

But --

 

 

 

 

Despite the pretense, Pansy pays attention to this. She goes shopping early enough, when there is no one to meet or see or talk to at the shops and she chooses a black backless gown to wear for the party. Everyone will choose bright colors in the spirit of spring, and she will stand out, which is always the point.

(And her nails, her nails will be painted red, red like her lips and her blood and this imaginary war.)

Pansy arrives late to the party and waits for Daphne to come to her, not the other way around. She twists the truth until she bends it into her own victory, no matter that Daphne beat her to hosting this party, because she will still be the most noticable thing in the room and that'll have to count as a victory tonight. When Daphne comes to her, she leans in to hug her and tells Daphne she's relieved to finally only be a guest and not a host and she breathes out smoke into her face and Daphne has to blink and this is revenge, and it's nothing, really, both at once and it still feels so damn good.

 

 

 

 

Daphne has to blink once more.

(Good.)

 

 

 

 

(Gotcha.)

 

 

 

 

Pansy, she has whiskey in her glass later, lazily taking in the people, the lights, the mood. Women always drink wine or champagne, so she has to do something to set herself apart from the rest of them, because she refuses to let anyone think of her as anyone, as if she were the sane as everyone, as something ordinary. Pansy Parkinson is extraordinary. She made sure so herself

(when she forged herself out of and blood and magic, as ~~girls~~ ~~heroes~~ ~~monsters~~ women are wont to do. Pansy made herself, out of her mother's cruel words and out of her father's silence, out of her black eye liner and out of that sound Draco makes when takes his cock all the way into her mouth. Pansy makes herself out of these things and yet she is none of these things, and she will not be broken by easily given smiles and light touches of a hand against her elbow.)

She makes sure to be the last one at the party, and she's not sure why. Maybe to get a rare chance to see what she thinks of as Daphne's facade fall apart. Maybe to see her and maybe to destroy her and maybe to save her, or to let Daphne save her instead. She hopes she'll know which when the time arrives.

 

 

 

 

The yard is almost completely dark, save for the moon trying to find its way through the trees, like it might miss out on something if it doesn't, and then it's just the two of them.

 

 

 

 

"I didn't see you there", Daphne says. (Even her ever so regular sentences sound like they're colored in every fucking shade of the rainbow, and) Pansy (is glad she her glass is full) (so she can taste the whiskey) (and not think about the words) (or the lips and tongue that create their sounds) takes a large sip of her whiskey.

 

 

 

 

"Mind if I have one?" Daphne asks, and Pansy takes out her pack of cigarettes out of her purse. Daphne grabs one (Pansy expected her fingers to be clumsy, look clumsy, they don't) and Pansy lights it for her, and Daphne leans her back on the fence and now she's standing a breath away from Pansy and Pansy can almost feel her skin against hers.

 

"Why do you hate me?" Daphne asks then, turns to Pansy and now they're less than one breath away from each other (Pansy has to stop breathing in order not to inhale her) (Pansy thinks she could count Daphne's eyelashes if she wanted to and make a wish on each one) (and she thinks they would maybe come true).

 

 

 

 

(This feeling is only a momentary lapse, though and then) Pansy straightens herself out, straightens out her back and breathes out smoke again, only this time Daphne doesn't blink). Daphne smiles.

 

 

 

 

"I'm in love with you", Pansy says then. (For shock value) (because she thinks she might be) (because maybe this breaks her or at least creates a crack).

(But really, isn't this it? The desire to push her fingers and nails into her and leave a bruise in her colors on Daphne's skin, so at least the two of them would know that Pansy was there, that something happened, and it mattered and Pansy did it.)

 

 

 

 

"You might be. But you're also drunk. Come on, you can sleep here."

 

 

 

 

(Pansy doesn't know how to react to this, so Pansy doesn't react.) Pansy follows Daphne upstairs in silence, half a step behind and half a cigarette ahead.

 

 

 

 

They're walking up a staircase and Pansy is (definitely) (definitely not, no, she would never) checking out Daphne's ass in her baby blue dress and Pansy stops walking, waits for Daphne to notice. Daphne turns around, probably when she notices the distinct lack of the click clack of Pansy's heels (Pansy loves the heels, they make her taller than Daphne) and walks down towards her and Pansy (has to has to has to so she) touches her (wants to feel her kiss her have her devour her ruin her), her fingernails push into Daphne's hips and Daphne still doesn't blink, Daphne smiles again and Pansy kisses her then and she thinks she's still smiling even while her fingernails dig into the skin of Pansy's neck (this will leave a mark) and Pansy makes a sound that doesn't sound at all like a growl, no, and pushes Daphne against the staircase railing. Daphne tastes (like a first time smoker) (like an innocent on the verge of sin) (like sugar and spice and all things nice) (like coming home).

 

 

 

 

"Careful, we'll fall", Daphne's voice echoes on the staircase.

 

 

 

 

(A roll of a pair of eyes, a smile. Intent.)

 

 

 

 

"Isn't that the point?"

 

 

 


End file.
